


I See The Angels (No Mercy, No More)

by crownlessliestheking



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Death, Eren's nuts, F/M, M/M, Mikasa my child, Titan Eren, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Levi dies, and what does Eren have but his hunger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See The Angels (No Mercy, No More)

**Author's Note:**

> Angst.

_Sparkling angel_  
_I believe_  
_You are my saviour_  
_In my time of need_

* * *

 

Eren sees it every night, every morning; it dwells in the sick, twisted depths of his memory that not even his Titan (Rogue Titan, never trusted, never controlled) can erase.

It replays on a constant loop, ad infinitum. Eyes widening in shock, a body pulled taut with a sickening jerk of a steel thread. _Crunch, crunch, crunch._

The clang of the stub of a blade, dulled and stained, as it falls to the concrete.

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

Blood gleaming wetly on the tombstones of the Deviant’s teeth, oil slick and dark-black red in the hissing lamplight as it struggles to continue burning.

_Thud._

A head, falling to the ground, rolling to land by Eren’s feet-the red thread of fate that connected them brings them together, even now. Empty, dead eyes stare into his own, similar to their first meeting and yet so different-there is no spark of life, no predatory flash that sent chills racing down his spine in time with the frantic beating of his heart, an overworked horse fleeing the onslaught.

The wet sound of swallowing, then retching.

_ThudthudtHUDTHUD._

Countless bodies, desecrated beyond purification, a hideous, formless mass of limbs and cloth, all covered in the bilious slick of the Deviant’s innards-good men, good women, crumpled and broken, marionettes dismembered for the sake of a cruel child.

And yet all he sees is the head before him, the skull caved in like fine china, brittle-white and stained with too-red blood, lips Eren once yearned to kiss now fastened in a defiant rictus of a howl.

Perhaps it spells the ghost of his name, perhaps it is a scream of wordless terror. Eren will never know, he cannot pry the words from half a throat, cannot complete the thought of a now-dead hero.

He thinks he’s screaming as he grows, towering over the Deviant, his mind and body retreating into a whirlwind of pain as he sinks into the void that is his Titan. Rogue, for the one who could control it is-

Eren remembers, even then, through the rage and hunger and hot air and howls. And ** _hunger._**

He remembers, and with a constriction in what used to be his heart, he finds that he understands.

Levi.

!~!~!

They first met with a searing pain in his ribs and a look of nothing but contempt and disgust. It’s almost funny how much taller he seemed, then.

His eyes were cold and remote, like the stars Armin sometimes talks about. Like the ocean Eren once dreamed of seeing. Empty dreams, now. There is nothing but Titans and death and bottomless, hollow hatred.

And hunger. Always the hunger.

There is nothing left for him but that.

Mikasa finds him later, hours, he thinks through the haze the Titan has left in his mind-it is enough that he has lost the concept of time, but not enough that he no longer knows grief. It has left him cradling Levi’s head in his lap as if he could fix him with a few careful stitches-it has given him an eternity of staring into glassy eyes.

He’s almost forgotten Levi was alive before this.

He can almost make out his last words-definitely, “Eren”, his mind supplies with a whisper, though there is still a seed of doubt-when she pulls him up, her grip tight enough that he knows he will bruise. He hopes he will bruise.

He does not resist, only brings the head closer, whispering apologies in his ear. He tried to match up the body parts, a jigsaw of arms and legs and half-chewed torsos. He tried his best but none of them looked right, not like the Levi he knew with a patchwork of scars over his back and chest, and hands calloused with hours of bloodshed-practiced and purposed.

He’s sorry, he really is.

Eren thinks that he might be crying, when Mikasa forces him to turn around, but when he moves his hand to wipe his eyes, they come back bloody.

!~!~!

The first time they fucked is a memory he can get rid of, thankfully. It only haunts him in the wee hours of the night, when he lies beside Mikasa and realizes that she’ll never be enough even though she’s already shattered his record, assumed the mantle of Humanity’s Greatest Hope.

Eren’s own hope died with Levi, and he can’t bring himself to tell her that.

Mikasa has always been the strong one, but he knows that telling her will break her. One broken soldier is enough between the two of them.

(But for how long?)

It was violent, messy. After a recon mission in the forest-not the disastrous first, but a second one, one meant to give Eren time to gain control before everything went to shit. Violent and messy, the whole of it.

He had minded then-been sore for days, but that hadn’t hurt as much as Levi pulling out without so much as a word, only a muffled grunt as he emptied himself. And then walked away, leaving Eren to finish in his hand with a hoarse cry.

But that hadn’t hurt as much as him dying.

Either way, he had left. Eren thinks that maybe he should have caught on, then, and stopped himself the next time. And the next. And the next.

Maybe.

!~!~!

Eren gets into more and more fights. Loses some, wins some. Always a bruise on his body, a stitched up cut, the same mad rage in his eyes.

Hunger.

Eren has always been hungry. First for victory, then for Levi. Now, he’s not sure _what_ it is that he’s hungry for. He hopes that it will let him forget, but he doesn’t think so.

Mikasa never says anything when he stumbles in, battered and broken, a knife nicked with a handle rough, but the blade razor-sharp. Still, no telling when the handle will give way, when it no longer fits the human hand.

When he has outlived his usefulness.

He sees in their eyes, more than their words will ever give away. The flinches, the thoughts of ‘monster’.

_‘What has that Jaeger boy become?’_

_‘What is he?’_

_‘Certainly not human. Almost human, but not quite.’_

_‘I heard he was never the same after the Captain died.’_

_‘The short one?’_

_‘The one Ackerman replaced. They’re together, now.’_

_‘No way.’_

_‘Yeah.’_

It’s nothing but a dull sting now. Eren doesn’t think he cares, doesn’t think he can care.

It sparks a dim rage inside him, nothing compared to the yawning, black maw of the hunger, though-the way they think he’s abandoned his humanity. The way they think he’s never fought for it, every single day after his Titan claimed him.

The way it won’t go away, now that he doesn’t want it anymore.

Eren supposes that he was never really in danger of losing it in the first place, then.

!~!~!

Armin has all but given up talking to him. Mikasa is the only one who is there, all quiet acceptance and mirrored sadness. He thinks that she knows he can never love her-not like that, never like that. He almost wishes he could, it would be easier then, wouldn’t it?

Moving on.

Eren has never been good at moving on.

Every day is just something new to add to his nightmares. All he sees is the disjointed head, last words cut off before Eren could hear them, could help, could do anything.

He’s hungry all the time now, even though food turns to ash in his mouth, and water is dust to his desert of a throat. Nothing fills the cavernous yearning within him.

The only thing he tastes his is own blood-in a brawl, in a battle, copper and iron and salt, disgusting rust. He thinks that his teeth must be stained crimson by now, the bite-mark on his hand is bone-deep. It takes longer to heal, every time.

He’s stopped bandaging it.

They give him more missions, and he takes them, reckless. Reckless, stupid, just a dumb kid in a mad world. He fights, but doesn’t know what for, anymore.

He’s stopped going for the necks of Titans, started biting them. Their flesh is the only thing that can sate his hunger anymore, but that will stop soon. It burns his tongue as he devours them, leaving the heads behind. Always the heads, with eyes rolling, roving madly, mouths and teeth gnashing, distorted features arrayed into piteous greed.

Eren’s not capable of feeling sorry for them. He doesn’t know if they can suffer, but he hopes that they do. That it does.

Mikasa always accompanies him on missions, even when he tells her he doesn’t need her. Doesn’t want her.

Cruel knives of words, and she just stands there. Lets them shred her, eviscerate her.

The one time she mentions Levi, he hits her across the face, his hand moving before he can tell it to stop-

(does he want it to stop?)

His bite-mark leaves a smear of blood across her bone-white cheek.

For a moment, it looks like she’s going to hit him back. He almost begs her to.

The next day, there is a violet bruise blossoming lurid on her cheek, though he has no new ones decorating his body.

It hurts.

!~!~!

He can control his changes better now. Doesn’t need the pain, even though he still does it. Bares his flesh to the bone on his hand, lets it heal. Rinse and repeat.

It’s a ritual at this point.

It’s not anger that’s the key to his shift, or even hatred, or grief or sorrow or joy.

It’s hunger.

And it becomes easier to fluctuate between Titan and human, both Rogues, uncontrollable, unapproachable, wreaking nothing but destruction on those around him.

Eren gets better at fighting, better at hiding the hollowness

(hunger)

Inside him. He gets better at faking a smile, at faking the fire in his eyes, at faking a will to fight. It’s left him, now. Nothing to fight for, only thousands of Titans to fight against. Day after day after day. Rinse and repeat.

Deviants, with carnal intelligence. Enormous Titans that are nothing but lost shifters, reminders of what he could be, beckoning him to lose himself to the hunger-it’s too bad that he already has. Large, small, medium, fast, slow, clever, stupid. He eats them all, consumes them until he’s bloated and retching, spewing half-digested limbs from a bulging stomach that still craves more.

Hungry, so hungry. Always so hungry, but never eating the heads. He has enough nightmares crashing around in his skull without adding any more.

Eren has always clung to the tattered shreds of his humanity-perhaps that is why the images, the memories, never-

Stop.  


End file.
